


Death On Two Legs

by DiverVicky



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brian overshares quite a bit there, Comfort, Depressed Brian May, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Brian May, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Protective Freddie Mercury, Protective John Deacon, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Brian May, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, but it really depends on the person, not meant to be a realistic representation of traumatic experience, so... yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29689593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiverVicky/pseuds/DiverVicky
Summary: After having been victimized in a brutal attack, it is his bandmates Brian goes to.They're at a true loss of what to do.
Relationships: Brian May/Original Male Character(s), John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Death On Two Legs

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: this work is complete fiction. It contains graphic (ish?) flashbacks of sexual assault. Not beta read. You know the drill. Don't like, don't read.  
> Comments are very welcome!

“Please, _please_ , I-I need-“ the man at the doorway didn't know what he needed. Voice wobbly, legs unsteady, arms hugging his own self, eyes begging, lip trembling, and Freddie’s heart sunk at the image. “ _Please.”_

Brian wasn't himself.

(Or was he not what they _needed_ Brian to be?)

They didn't recognize the man in front of them. Pale as a ghost, shaken to the core- Who was that? Brian, it _couldn't_ be, would that he was – **no**. This one was vulnerable and shaken and _aching_ for any form of reassurance, protection; suddenly he wasn't the mother hen, the strong one. For the first time, his mere 26 years of age actually showed, in his bloodshot eyes, in his broken stance. For the first time, he was a young man who didn't know what to do, who was asking for help, _fearing_ with his gaze. A cowering prey to the lights of a car, moving, running toward him, no way _out_. For the first time, Freddie really felt grounded; the singer _truly_ was the oldest one in the band, though not at heart. He was at a loss of what to do, because, really, that was _Brian’s_ place. Not _his_. Not Freddie's, nor Roger's, and much less John's, who couldn't even begin to help himself out most of the times, the fragile being.

That was _Brian’s_ place.

(All boys overestimated how much someone could truly take, all firm and steady, until the worst thing happened and the places switched. And now it was showing.)

Brian had left earlier for a hotel after an especially heated argument with Roger about their solos.

However, their friend needed _them_ now. Brian needed them. They would have to make do.

“Come on in, darling, _dear,_ what _happened_ to you?” Freddie immediately moved out of the way, not caring about Brian’s muddy shoes, as Roger rushed to Brian's side, questions and questions and _why was he limping?_

“… Are you even _listening_?” Roger made him sit down on the couch, but Brian was too broken to sit still, or sit painless, _fingers trembling, my whole being shaking, I ache I ache I **burn**_ , and it filled them with dread all the more to see Brian arch his back with pain, struggling for a painless position for his tender body. John hurried to the kitchen, saying he'd prepare some tea for their mate.

All three sat down, Freddie at his right, Roger at his left.

“Who was it?” the drummer asked, perhaps a bit too soon, perhaps a bit too harsh; Brian flinched, looking away, and Freddie retrieved a blanket to put around his shoulders. “ _Who_ did this to you?”

“I don't think that's an appropriate way to ask him, Roger, the poor thing's terrified-“

“Well, _what else_ am I supposed to do, Fred? Sit here and watch him hurt, with no clue-“

“What's important is _what_ happened to him, not _who_ \- can't you be **_gentler_** for once? You know, maybe be _less_ you,”

“Maybe _you_ should-“

And there it was again. Brian sunk his face on his hands, choking in a sob, attempting to drown out the bickering, the increasingly loud comebacks and heated words. His head was throbbing and his world was spinning. What had happened replayed in his mind again and again and, for help, for comfort, for safety, he had came to _them;_ Roger too fiery, Freddie too soft, and John was here in front of him with a cup of tea and a smile that did not much cover the genuine concern invading him.

Brian looked up with bloodshot eyes and a shaky smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and with a whispered wobbly _“thank you, Deaky,”_ he took the hot drink, taking in the calming warmth in his mouth, smoke clouding his semblance. A familiar comfort to his now raw, dry, _tender_ throat. He didn't feel it when the fight came to an end, as they all now watched him with pure concern and confusion and suddenly Brian felt naked and exposed all over again, under the burning eyes and the attention and he only wanted to shrink into nothing, to disappear, to sleep _forever_. Could he please, do so?

“What happened to yourself, dear?” Freddie's gentle voice came, and too came his kind hand on Brian's knee, and the aforementioned mentally cursed at himself when the visible flinch he gave at the touch was enough for Freddie to retire his hand, _sorry_ written on his features.

 _What_ happened _to yourself?_

They were at a loss of what to do, and conflicting reactions had followed suit. Of _course._ John's silent comfort being retrieving the tea, his reassuring smile, and sitting across the couch, watching with concern, yet keeping his distance; _ever_ the shy one. It was understood, then, that he decided to leave the rest to those two closest to Brian than him, unless he be called needed. However quiet, his effort helped wonders. His presence was felt. Brian regretted not taking to him more.

Roger too was concerned, yes, but he was also _fuming_ – who _dared_ lay a finger on their Bri? Who would _ever_ think of hurting that gentle giant? It was beyond him. Heads would roll. The blonde was no softie, and no moral would keep him from finding out and _showing_ them a lesson. He was aching for Brian to finally give him names, addresses, _something._ Brian tensed up when he noticed his clenched fists, his livid stance, his fiery blue eyes, and tried to reassure himself that it was _not_ directed at him, to no avail.

Freddie’s semblance was that of careful patience, of genuine worry, his frown and gaze firm; _calm down and then tell us everything,_ it said, though his gentle words said otherwise. Body and words ever clashing. Brian wondered briefly if they would once again meet Freddie's mother hen side. He had to smile bitterly. Why did it have to be in these circumstances? Why to _Brian?_

What was consensus for all three, and the things that they agreed on, was the need to care for their friend, the uncertainty of what to do, the awkwardness of not knowing how to help, the disdain at having to be now the voices of reason and reassurance. It wasn't easy now that they agreed to disagree, this one time; They all simply had _very_ different ways to deal with the situation and it didn't help that they clashed together without a fourth vote, the deciding vote, the final one. It only made them run in circles. Not one agreed solution. It wasn't helping.

Not knowing what even had happened didn't help much, either.

Had that always been Brian’s role? To come in, settle the disagreements, problem solved?

Looking back… they simply didn't know. When they thought of Brian, they automatically thought of the brainy one; the logical, responsible, soft-voiced, down-to-earth guitarist; the mother friend, trying his best to keep them out of trouble, and who seemed always on the verge of an aneurism to Roger and Freddie’s antics; at the same time, trying to hide a smile of amusement from them. His reprimand glare, that look that said “I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed” and boy, did it hurt more than a punch to the gut. Speaking half of the time about his cosmic elations they couldn't begin to understand. The one with the lectures and the band aids and the responsible, wholesome fun and that logical approach that really came from a place of love and affection and need to see his friends safe and happy.

Somehow, that made him the strong one. He always helped, but rarely did he himself accept, or seek, any help at all.

That was what they had come to expect of the guitarist, at least.

_(Maybe it was true, then; that was the thing about being the strong one – others rarely offered you a hand. Maybe it was his own fault.)_

This wasn't _that,_ and it scared them.

And it came from a place both of selfishness and of genuine concern for their friend. This was not their mother hen, and Brian was hurting.

“I say we take him to a doctor.” Brian tensed up in horror at Roger’s suggestion. It sounded more like a demand, like a choice that was final, like most of his suggestions used to sound.

Like another argument was round the corner.

“And I say we let him rest and give him time, darling, he's a mess,”

“And _I_ say that's a shit idea, Fred. We don't know what happened to him. What if it's an emergency?!”

“We can’t just force him, Roger,”

“He hasn't even said _anything_ about not wanting to go!”

“And he hasn't said he wanted to do so, either,”

 _He_ was there. He could hear them. Through his pain, he could. Couldn't they see?

_I made everything worse. I shouldn't have come._

“Deaky! What do _you_ think? Should we stay here and risk it getting worse, _or_ should we seek a potentially life-saving doctor?”

“I don't know,” John answered, truthfully.

All conflict, not one solution, and he knew it was because they were lacking _something._

He'd have to speak up. That'd give them, as always, something to start with.

“I was attacked.”

He could barely hear himself, but within a second, three pairs of eyes were on him, surprised and shaken and eager to know more.

“No shit Brian-“

“Do _shut up_ , Roger,” Freddie glared, and then his stance turned gentler when he leaned forward and his eyes met Brian. “How so, dear?”

Long trembling fingers grasped at the cup, now turning lukewarm, and he gulped. Brian felt embarrassment creep up toward his cheeks, _why did I even come?_ And even more embarrassment followed suit at having just questioned his choice of going to his friends. _I'm an unthankful bastard._

He’d have to go for the truth.

The truth shouldn't feel so hard to tell if it was the right thing.

“I…”

_Friendly smiles, firm handshakes, “it's nice to meet you.”_

“I was planning to stay at the hotel for the night a-and… I met this man,” Once again he gulped, as the other boys leaned forward, listening with attention. “He was… He said I-I was welcome to pass by his room at anytime, he… he seemed friendly _enough_ , a-and- _fuck_ , I shouldn't have-“

“Brian…” Freddie started,

“I shouldn't have trusted him so _easily,_ I know better-“

“ _Brian_.”

He looked up. Freddie's hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever happened, dear, it wasn't your fault, alright?”

Brian sighed and nodded, trying to gather his composure.

“This man, he… he was staying at the room next door,”

_The little bar at his room ran out of beers the night before. There was only wine. Brian went over to the man next door, in the hopes of finding some form of healthy distraction._

_Brown short hair and beard, hazel eyes. Shorter than him, but had some muscle to his figure._

_He smiled when he opened the door and saw him. Brian said hi._

“And… you came in,” Roger completed as a question, to which Brian nodded.

They still had no idea where he could be going with this, could only make assumptions. Was he robbed?

“I sat down with him at his room's table and we chatted… For a while, I-I think. After a while, he, uhm- he offered me a beer, and I _accepted_ it,” he spat the word out, as if it was the most unthinkable, unforgivable sin ever done.

_A friendly smile, as the man he knew as Samuel helped him a beer, and-_

”And the bottle was… already _opened,_ ” he recalled, his voice unsteady. Where had the tea cup gone? “We drank and spoke for a while, until…”

All eyes were on him, listening patiently (all but Roger, who seemed on the verge of walking to that damned hotel and burning it to the ground).

_Brian rubbed at his eyes after a few minutes, feeling odd._

_“You alright there, mate?”_

_The guitarist tried to wave it off with a smile._

_“I'm starting to feel out of sorts, is all… stress and all that,” he grinned._

_Brian shifted in discomfort when he noticed Samuel’s eyes exploring his every inch, a smile creeping on his features._

_“You're a rather handsome man, Brian. Has anyone ever told you so?”_

“Fucking creep,” Roger said, and this time, Freddie had to agree.

“And then, darling?”

Brian let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling, his mind reliving the evening experiences.

It was the drink. He was supposed to think with logic. He was supposed to know better.

“I… I think he put something in my drink. I t-tried to stand, but my legs felt like jelly. Fell over and he catched me.”

_Is he satisfied with what he did?_

Everyone's blood boiled. Heads **_would_** roll.

 _“Careful there, baby,” Samuel chuckled as Brian struggled to get a hold of something,_ anything.

_His surroundings were spinning, his limbs weakened, his speech slurred. Closing his eyes made it worse._

_Then he was left on the floor._

_“Wait here,” as if he could move anywhere. Samuel disappeared into the bathroom. Brian’s heart was about to break through his ribcage. Fear._

_What was happening to him?_

_“I'm back,” the other man called, locking the door to his room._

_The sound of a belt unbuckling._

The singer didn't like where this was going. He gulped in dread, _no, this cannot be true,_ and Brian's haunted eyes told him everything he needed to know. However, one look at Roger and the drummer was obviously clueless, perhaps in denial. John was unreadable.

Because surely, men couldn't get... that couldn't happen to them. That was only reserved for women. _Right?_

 _Oh boy,_ Freddie thought. How _wrong_ they were.

Brian was not done. There was more to it. They were not going anywhere.

Once he had started, he couldn't bring himself to stop. He told them everything.

_A rough hand grasping at his jaw._

_“n-no, wait,” he barely managed to mouth, almost unintelligible. “what-“_

_Brian gasped as Samuel slapped him across the face._

_“Shut up,”_

_And his eyes, watery in horror at what was right in front of his face._

_Samuel grasped at his jaw. Forced his mouth open._

_Salty. Too big. Pain. Gag._

_His hair was pulled roughly. Back and forth. Back and forth._

_Too deep._

_Brian cried._

_Oxygen._

With what face, with what dignity, would he deal with the world now? Where had his manliness gone?

Brian now grieved. It was lost. He was lost, lost, _lost._

_He was pulled back harshly._

_On a bed, onto his back, and he felt the weight shift above him._

_He tried to push the man away with his hands, weak hands, useless._

_“please, no-“_

_Samuel’s mouth on his._

_An intruder tongue-_

_And all of sudden, he was flicked onto his stomach._

“I-it’s all a bit of a blur, from then to… now,”

He wanted to claw at his skin, he wanted to tear it apart and be rid of all the filth he was left with. Of all the rot he was filled with. _No way out._

Freddie was simply horrified, Roger was torn and livid, John was struck and saddened. All musicians were shaken – But Brian had went through hell. The details he gave were way too vague, but enough to understand the weight of the situation. They needed to know how severe it was, in order to act accordingly. What else could they do?

They let him continue.

_His pants were pulled down to his ankles, and he sobbed bitter tears and mucus against the pillow. Pure dread filled him._

_No, no,_ no _._

_A stab into his soul._

_His face contorted in pain, and Samuel pressed his head further against the pillow, drowning his screams._

_Sheer, blinding pain._

_Breaking through him as if that man sharpened a blade in him._

_Tore apart, warmth running down between his legs, and he saw stars._

_The bed creaked and creaked and creaked._

_Samuel breathing heavily against his ear._

_Warmth filling his torn, raw insides._

“I-I mostly remember… _Pain_ ,” was all, and his voice was a shaky whisper, but enough to be heard by all present.

John felt bile rising up.

_Until he was left feeling empty._

_He cried out as Samuel stood, and Brian shivered upon hearing his laugh._

_It took all the strength in the world, against all the dizziness, all the blinding pain and the devastation of what had just transpired, for him to even pull his pants up._

_Samuel pulled him by the arm and Brian fell to his knees, still sobbing, aching._

_“You're defiled,” he whispered to his ear, and Brian sobbed and shook harder than he ever had._

_He was dirty, dirty, filthy._

_Samuel left._

_He cried until he passed out._

“He _raped_ me,” Brian said, finally, and that was enough for him to break down and in a second John was kneeling in front of where he sat, his hands meeting the guitarist’s, and bloodshot eyes meeting his own. His heart ached terribly for his friend. No words left John's mouth, and no words were needed; the lump in his throat wouldn't allow it.

Brian held, clutched onto his hands as lifesavers, as he sank in despair. He didn't even fight enough. Had that even been rape? Was he exaggerating? It _was_ a mistake coming back, wasn't it?

_Was he happy? About what he did?_

_Was he his first toy?_

Roger choked in a sob, too, and Freddie had to cover his own mouth with an unsteady hand, his eyes dripping tears of all that was wrong with this world. All three were there, in a mere instant. Tending to their guitarist.

"I'm gonna _murder_ the bloody bastard," Roger whispered, bitterly and truthful.

His friend had been touched by the filth of this world.

“F-forgive me, boys, I-I didn't know where else to go, I- I was _scared_ and _hurting_ and-“

“There, darling, we're here for you. Always will. T-there's nothing to forgive, Brian, my dear,” and even trying his gentlest tone, Freddie was a mess. “It's okay,”

It wasn’t. The whole situation was ugly, horrifying, scarring, brutal; there was nothing _okay_ about it. Nothing okay with what happened to their bandmate. To their Brian. 

(And if Brian noticed neither made an attempt to provide him of physical comfort, he didn't say anything. Who in their right mind would want to touch him now, anyway?)

They maintained their distance, afraid of startling their guitarist, but aching to hold him close. To wordlessly let him know it would be okay.

Yet it felt like it would never be, anymore. _How_ could it be? _Why him?_ No one knew where to even start. Brian felt dead on two legs.

They still didn't know what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is a little something that suddenly came to me just now. I started writing it not knowing exactly where I was going with it, my mind worked too fast for my fingers, and this came out. leave it to me to give things a bloody dark turn!
> 
> I did not re-read, and English is also not my first language, so sorry about any horrors you may find.
> 
> Again, comments are very welcome!


End file.
